


Homesickness (Time Measured in Teaspoons)

by Sangerin



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Community: remix_redux, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sangerin/pseuds/Sangerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time moves on, teaspoonful by teaspoonful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homesickness (Time Measured in Teaspoons)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Homesickness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4526) by [Sab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sab/pseuds/Sab). 



> Written for Remix 2006.

The way she survived the Delta Quadrant was by measuring time in teaspoons, and when they finally got home, it was a habit she couldn’t break. She stopped living day to day and started living hour to hour, soaking up the sensation of being home. She counted the minutes and hours that she’d sat in the sunshine (three hours and fourteen minutes one day, a little less the next), the time between cups of coffee (she tried to last at least one hour and fifty-nine minutes), the hours and days until she’d see her friends and former crewmembers again – the years since she’d last seen friends in the Alpha Quadrant (six years, nine months and twenty-three days for those whom she’d seen while on that last leave on Earth, before heading to the Badlands).

One week (seven days of twenty-four hours, although it was actually closer to six days and twelve hours) since they’d arrived back on Earth – back home, or was Voyager home? – there was a party. Nothing like their parties on the ship; the ones held on the holodeck, or in the Mess. This was big and crowded, window-dressing for the admiralty needing an overt demonstration of their welcome. Even so, it was enjoyable, if odd to see everyone in party clothes; to have friends and family around; to have to deal with the brass in a social setting. It had been two days (total: sixty-two hours) since she’d seen Chakotay last, and they mingled briefly in that artificial setting before saying goodbye. Somehow, though, she wasn’t surprised when, fifteen minutes later, he walked up to her at the bus stop.

Nor was she surprised, after three hours of reminiscence over coffees at a 21st century nostalgia coffee house, when he let her into his house and she kissed him. Her counting wasn’t quite as good by then, which had something to do with the whiskey he’d added to her coffee during the evening.

Two hours after that she woke up from forty minutes sleep – the time between filled with kisses and caresses, guilty pleasure and joy tinged with a touch of pain – with her hand on Chakotay’s chest and the sky an unfamiliar grey outside the window. She also woke up with a headache among the worst she could remember. Chakotay said that he’d waited seven years for what had happened between them: she’d wanted to correct him (six years, eight months and twenty days was the absolute most it could be, and that would verge into disturbing territory), or mention that the one thing she couldn’t measure by minutes, hours or days was her see-sawing, on-again-off-again attraction to him. So she’d dressed, said she’d call, kissed him (it was awkward, somehow) and left.

Two days and five hours later she sat down (in a break between de-briefing sessions) to call Chakotay, or at least leave him a message. But she didn’t. The moment passed and Admiral Simmons’ aide came to call her back, and she worried a little about what would happen if she didn’t call him, but more about what would happen if she did.

Nine days after that she looked over at her screen, thought briefly of Chakotay, and turned away to whatever her own aide had just brought to her desk.

Six months, one week and two days after the night they slept together, she realised that the way it had turned out was probably for the best. She had the memories of their night – memories that were sharp and clear and made her smile like a young girl if they caught her off guard. She didn’t need more than the memories. A precious few hours that closed a door for each of them. And opened another, if the wedding invitation she received four months and five days later was any indication.

Time moves on, teaspoonful by teaspoonful.


End file.
